Ilse Dumont’s red lips seemed to be dry, for she moistened them without speaking. In her eyes he saw peril—knowledge of something terrible—some instant menace.
Then her eyes, charged with lightning, slowly turned from him to the girl on the sofa who had not moved. But in her eyes, too, a little flame began to flicker and play, and the fixed smile relaxed into an expression of cool self-possession.
Neeland’s pleasant, careless voice broke the occult tension:
“This is a pretty club,” he said; “everything here is in such excellent taste. You might have told me about it,” he added to Ilse with smiling reproach; “but you never even mentioned it, and I discovered it quite by accident.”
Ilse Dumont seemed to find her voice with an effort:
“May I have a word with you, Mr. Neeland?” she asked.
“Always,” he assured her promptly. “I am always more than happy to listen to you––”
He turned to the girl on the sofa and made his adieux with conventional ceremony and a reckless smile which said:
“You were quite right, mademoiselle; I’m in trouble already.”